24. CHAPTER XXIV.
IN WHICH THE AUTHOR OMITS DESCRIBING THE RACES.
We have said that nothing but the pencil of Hogarth
could depict the humors of the streets of Richmond town,
when Mr. St. John arrived.
We add, that even this great humorist would have had
his powers taxed to their utmost by the scenes on the race-course
upon the following day.
We shall scarcely attempt to outline them, for we feel
how powerless would be the endeavor. It is enough to say
that the old field presented the appearance of Pandemonium
broke loose; that cock-fights, dog-fights, rat and terrier
combats, and human fisticuff engagements, were the lesser
and more unimpressive details of what seemed a tremendous
orgy.
The crowd was huger, the traveling gamblers more indefatigable,
the Italian and his monkey turned wilder summersets,
and through this mass of “low life” and revelry,
a thrill of delight and expectation seemed to run, which
changed to resounding acclamations when the horses were
led forth.
Mr. St. John, by express kindness of his friend, L. Lugg,
Esquire, chief judge, was accommodated with a seat in the
judges' stand—a little round tower, fronting the balcony,
and looking down upon the concourse.
The young man gazed with that interest and curiosity,
which is said to be peculiar to Virginians, upon the spectacle.
Beneath him the crowd reeled and flowed to and fro in
waves; rich chariots shot by like stars, full of little beauties
in diamonds and lace, or portly old fellows in enormous ruffles;
the dog-fights, cock-fights, man-fights, went on in a
ceaseless uproar.
Above and fronting him was a spectacle somewhat different.
In the wide balcony a mass of dames and gentlemen
resembled, with their variegated costumes, a blooming
flower-garden; and the sparkling eyes, red cheeks, and lips
ever smiling, indicated how much pleasure the young ladies
expected from the race.
Alas! for the cause of morality and solemnity! 'T is much
the same, says our author, in all ages. Whether princess
or young lady, damsel or lass of the mill, they, one and all,
are the same foolish, giddy creatures! They all love fine
dresses, and colors of the rainbow! They thrill one and all
at a festival or jubilee! They like gallants, and admiration,
and pretty speeches, and amusement! and I do n't think, Sir
Diogenes, they are heathen!
The horses are led up and down through the crowd—the
cock-fights, dog-fights, man-fights, disappear—a thrill of admiration
even runs through the bevy of fair girls.
The horses are stripped and saddled. They are the cream
of Virginia racers, and they know what they are expected
to perform.
The boys are tossed into the saddle, the drum tapped,
and the animals vanish from the stand like meteors on the
circular track.
It is not our intention to dwell on the details of the races,
or on the singular and laughable scenes which followed them.
If the reader would see that jolly period rise up from the
mists of oblivion, renew its faded colors, and unroll its wide
tapestry of fun and revelry; if he would know how our
ancestors amused themselves and carried on, he has only to
consult the “Virginia Gazette,” and the advertisement of the
frolic on St. Andrew's day, at Captain John Bickerton's old
field in Hanover, to see the whole spectacle again. He will
see how the hat worth twenty shillings was cudgeled for;
how a violin was played for, and then how they all played
different tunes at once; how a quire of ballads was sung for,
and silver buckles wrestled for, and a pair of handsome shoes
and stockings danced for—the stockings to be given to the
prettiest girl upon the ground.
All this the honest and veracious old “Gazette” sets forth
—every other word commencing with a capital—and there
we read it all to-day. How can the poor chronicler depict
it? He listens with respectful attention to the fiddlers, and
hears the maidens' voices singing for the book of ballads,
and bows to the prettiest girl upon the ground, who got the
stockings—bows low, quite careless whether she be diamond-decorated
maiden or poor country lass, caring to know nothing
but her beauty. The chronicler thus hears, and sees,
and laughs, and looks down on the rout, or up to the
balcony, with its starry eyes—but that is all. He can not
describe you, bright young men and maidens! though he
hears your mirth and laughter chiming through the mists
of the century that is gone. He drops the corner of the
curtain he has raised for a moment, and passes onward,
smiling.
We shall not further dwell upon the races, or the fair, but
simply say that, on the following morning, Mr. St. John ordered
“Tallyho,” and turned his face toward Williamsburg.
The following note, however, went back, with Serapis and
Belsize, to Vanely:
“At Shoccoe's, Thursday morning.
“My Dear Uncle,
“I am just getting into the saddle for Williamsburg,
but write to say that Serapis won the purse. He was nearly
distanced the first heat, but won the two others over every
horse upon the ground. He's worth a thousand pounds.
“Tom bears you this. I go to Williamsburg, but hope
soon to see you all again at Vanely.
“Your dutiful nephew,
“Henry St. John.”
Having delivered this note to the negro, Mr. St. John got
into the saddle, and pushed his way through the crowd, toward
the hill upon which stood old St. John's Church.
